


Volleyball as a Metaphor for Death

by SIFoote (TheMayWaters)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Dark, Death, Metaphor, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2019-03-14 20:00:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13597290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMayWaters/pseuds/SIFoote





	Volleyball as a Metaphor for Death

There’s too many things to count on one hand that stand in for death—but I don’t think there’s anything quite like Volleyball.  
You spend your days standing on one side of the court. You gather allies, friends if you will, who help you fight against the opposing side. They’re doing everything they can to make the ball fall In a match you get three sets each played to twenty-five points.  
Your health, like a video game, is at twenty-five points and when you are hit that many times by the opposing side you lose.  
The net in the middle is something you cannot touch. It’s the point that separates you from the other side of the court. In miracle moments, if the ball rebounding off your team’s touch is soaring for the opponents side and aiming for out, the team has a few options. The setter can run for the ball and set it as long as it doesn’t cross inside the net posts (and as long as they don’t step onto the other team’s court). Or you can take the out and lose a point.  
Desperation is a determiner of what the setter might do at that moment.  
The opposing team is everything that drags us down in life. For one person it’s crippling depression, anxiety, family, discrimination—for another, they’re facing a different set of opponents, but because you’re friends, you’re all playing on the same side of the court.  
Sometimes you have days where you make a no touch service ace against the opposing team (a point made with a serve without connecting with the opposing players, it only touches the court). Those are amazing days. Your enemies are knocked down a few pegs, but then there are days when every one of your serves and spikes and cleanly received by the other time. They don’t waste any time in smashing down point after point—you’re unable to receive any of their hits.  
Those days are the worst.  
No one on your team is having a good day, but sometimes they are. They receive the hit for you instead and somebody else spikes the ball to help cause damage against your opponents.  
But what happens when the set ends?  
Someone comes out the victor and if it isn’t you, then you’re down. You’ve decided to end the world you live in and you sit on the edge of a building. Someone’s hand grabs you from behind and drags you back. There’s two more sets to play—if you can take the next.  
The second set comes and your team’s cohesion has increased. Their urgency bleeds into you, but you’re not sure why. Death would be easier. The game would be over, the first set was enough.  
Except it’s never enough with you. You crave the feeling of dancing on a court. You want to run and jump, spike and block. The second set is dawning and your friends put you on the court again. For a moment you don’t want to fight, but you do.  
You put up a strong fight against the other side, you make your minus tempo quicks, you block the strongest spikes—hope floods back into your bones as you make great strides against the opposing side.  
The team doesn’t take many hits.  
The opposing side is faltering under the barrage. They can’t keep up. You’ve hit twenty points first, they’re still at then. Your allies are holding you up and for a moment there’s worth in living again. You hit set point, only one more hit is needed to score, except you lose momentum and the other team is gaining. After several long rally’s with the opposing side, their energy pulls you down, but another on the team scores the point.  
You win the set.  
Perhaps this time you’ll win. If you win the game then you live to see another day.  
You cling to the strength and hope of those around you.  
And when the end of the third set comes, you’re on top of the building again. Except, this time, no one is pulling you back. No hands cling to your clothes and whisper words of comfort that you can still win this game. The wind whips at your clothes and you realize that this was how it was meant to end all along. Long rally’s between you and your opponents are way too exhausting. You don’t want to jump anymore—but you do.  
  
  
  
“Hinata!”  
“Shōyō!”


End file.
